If you live in a true temperate climate, like I did growing up, you might say that the months have personalities. Personalities influenced by the weather and the holidays. In November, in upstate New York, it got dark early and then earlier and earlier. And it was cold. Often the first significant snowfall put in an appearance. It was a month that was more somber than joyful albeit punctuated by the warm sounds of gratitude and full bellies around a Thanksgiving table.
In the last years before her death, my mother dominated my siblings’ and my thoughts and concerns. There was infrequent mention of my father who had died so many years before. I would quietly think about him each November 6, the Election Day anniversary of his leaving us. This year, with my mother gone two years past, I almost missed this anniversary.
My father was a very warm and nurturing individual. He played board games and Wiffle ball with us kids and invested significant amounts of time paying attention to and being available to us. I think he was ahead of other men of his generation.
I still recall with fondness the morning he met me for coffee in the W.T. Grant department store downtown. I was probably home from college or in my last years of high school. I felt so grown up to be doing this. Mind you, this was long before Starbucks and a café on every corner. Dad met me, we sat on stools at the simple lunch counter, chatted, and then we separately left. He to return to work, and I to do whatever. I felt that in his eyes that day, I was an adult.
Sadly, my father died far too young at only 48. On that fateful Election Day eve, we drove hours through the dark, cold, snow-flurry night to say our last goodbyes. He was the only one who voted (absentee). He never got to know and enjoy his grandson and granddaughters nor his great grandchildren. But he left a legacy of caring and warmth that lives on in us as we remember and cherish all that he gave us in that short time. And, it being November and Veterans Day, he was also a World War II and Korean War Navy vet.
November can be a gloomy month up north, but it redeems itself with thankfulness on a day to draw close to family and friends.
RECIPE OF THE WEEK
A very good friend served us these tuna and bulgur stuffed peppers recently, and they were delicious! So much so that I immediately made a copy of the recipe for myself. It’s from Melissa Clark at the New York Times. These peppers are prettier than hers!
Cooking in America and culinary consciousness changed in 1970. Among the notables and celebrities of the food world, there was a sea change. Veneration of and obeisance to French cooking as the gold standard was replaced by respect for a more liberated, less formal way of dining. Americans were stepping away from the casseroles and canned and frozen foods of the 1950’s and 60’s and celebrating fresh produce and local ingredients.
(www.arabchurch.com)
Leading this charge were Julia Child, cookbook author and TV personality (The French Chef), James Beard, teacher, consultant and author, and M.F.K. Fisher, food writer whose past had been all about France. Playing lesser, but equally important roles were Judith Jones, editor extraordinaire responsible for bringing Julia Child’s books to the public, but also those of Diane Kennedy (Mexican cuisine) and Madhur Jaffrey (Indian); and Richard Olney, a purist whose first book, Paris MenuCookbook, was a mix of good ingredients with a bohemian twist. He was the only one in this group who lived fulltime in France. The others all visited, some for weeks or months; in 1970, they all, plus Simca Beck, Child’s co-author, overlapped in Provence and shared cooking and conversation.
Luke Barr’s sort-of-memoir, Provence, 1970: M. F.K Fisher, Julia Child, James Beard and the Reinvention of American Taste, is a wonderfully engaging account of this shift with all of the underlying tensions between strong-willed, opinionated individuals. The grandnephew of Fisher, Barr draws on published biographies and memoirs as well as the letters and journals of his great aunt and the others. I knew quite a bit about most of these people from my own earlier reading so his premise was not new to me.
While in graduate schooI, I bought both volumes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking when volume 2 was published (a special deal). Then my grandmother, a plain, but good cook, gave us another copy of volume 2. I think she got it for supporting her local PBS station and she probably watched The French Chef. Over the years, I’ve made onion soup, beef bourguignon, and a lovely tomato rice saffron soup (Potage Magli) from these tomes too many times to count.
In 1970, Beard was finishing up writing American Cookery. Apparently, many critics thought it tried to cover too much material and didn’t support American cuisine as a distinct one. I, however, have found it a useful compendium, and my paperback copy is yellowed and stained. I still consult it for his recipes for chicken fricassee and veal Marengo. Later the C.P. and I acquired Beard on Breadand Beard on Food, each containing several favorite recipes.
One of Julia’s co-authors on the Mastering series was Simone Beck. By the end of their collaboration, Julia and Simca’s friendship was frayed and almost at the breaking point. Simca was French and a zealot in her adherence to the French way of cooking. She preferred to guess at measurements, for example, while Julia wanted to be precise to ensure that their readers got good results. After those two parted professional company, Judith Jones persuaded Simca to do her own cookbook. The result, Simca’s Cuisine, which I also own, includes a set of suggested menus by season or occasion. None is for the kitchen novice. I enjoyed reading Simca’s commentary about the recipes, but there is only one I consistently made for guests. It’s Paupiettes de Veau, a fussy, but tasty, preparation of thin veal cutlets spread with sautéed onions and then a slice of gruyere, rolled up, tied, and then pan fried. There was some sort of saucing as a final step.
For each one in its own way, the time in Provence in 1970 allowed Child, Beard, Fisher, and Olney, to move beyond seeing French cooking as the “sacred way.” Julia Child felt liberated to explore American cuisine, but also the ethnic influences on it from the wider world. She wrote several more cookbooks that espoused her more free-flowing approach.
I added these volumes to our growing cookbook collection and was delighted in 1990 when Philadelphia’s annual celebration of chefs, The Book and the Cook, invited Julia Child to be the featured guest at the Fountain Restaurant in the Four Seasons Hotel. It was a lunchtime affair and we went with good friends Ellen and Bob. General practice was that you brought that chef’s featured book to your table and, at some point in the meal, the chef made the rounds and autographed everyone’s copy. Ever the gracious host, Julia stood at the entrance to this elegant dining room and greeted and shook hands with each one of us. While lunch was in progress, she then went from table to table conversing briefly and signing our books. She was one classy lady and this the most memorable meal of The Book and the Cook we ever attended! Reading Barr’s book brought to mind memories and meals.
On a final note, I also read Judith Jones’ memoir, The Tenth Muse: My Life in Food, when it came out in 2007. (Essay by JW Farrington)
Gardens
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the lovely time we had on our return visit to the Coastal Maine Botanic Gardens with Margaret and Fred. This time, the magnificent lemony lilies were in full bloom as seen in the header photo and I admired red and wavy grasses.
Before the age of 50, my mother, Betsy, had made one trip to Europe (25th wedding anniversary to England and Portugal) and several to Ontario, Canada, but that was it for foreign travel. In college, she studied Spanish and Portuguese and aspired to be an archaeologist in South America. That was before her good friend Marie introduced Betsy to her brother Erich. She married Erich, my father, and most travel, except visiting relatives in the Midwest, was shelved while they together raised four kids.
Widowed at 49, Betsy spent the next twenty-five years making up for lost time. She and my Aunt Lee, also a recent widow, traveled to Puerto Rico together—the first of Betsy’s many jaunts. In the early years, she routinely booked trips with the Smithsonian and bravely signed up to share a room (she was not a wealthy woman). These well-curated trips took her to much of South and Central America—Brazil, Peru, Santo Domingo, Haiti, and Guatemala—and then to Spain, the Netherlands and Egypt, enabling her to experience Machu Picchu, Dutch tulips, and the Pyramids. And to satisfy her curiosity about other cultures while feeding her keen interest in architecture. Later on, her trips were more domestic as she explored Seattle and Vancouver, New Orleans and Cajun Country, Baltimore and the Walters Art Museum, Santa Fe and the Southwest, and the art museums of the greater LA area. Wherever she traveled, she took photos. These were the days of film cameras and slides and more slides.
The last remnant of my mother’s memorabilia of more than 90 years of life is carousels and cartons of slides. I’ve been reviewing these slides, carousel by carousel, box after box. Those of weddings, graduations, and family reunions call up happy memories of my childhood and young adult years and good times with siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. Recently, I sent a big box of these slides off to a scanning service in California and, some weeks from now, my siblings and I will each receive a DVD of this precious snapshot of the past.
Going through the travel slides, most of which have no personal significance for me, I have been reminded of the extent of Betsy’s journeys and how much pleasure she gained from these trips. She read some of the suggested books beforehand, she kept notes, and she took pictures. Frequently, she used these slides as material for the talks she gave to Roundabout, a women’s study club she belonged to for more than 50 years.
I share some of my mother’s thirst for new horizons and new experiences. I was fortunate to begin my international travel in my 20’s with a 3-week trip to England, Germany, France, and Switzerland with my then newish husband. Thanks to the Chief Penguin’s scientific career, we two, and then three with our son, got to Europe and Asia a number of times for his commitments and once to Jerusalem for a library conference for me.
In retirement we have continued to travel to new venues (Vietnam and Valencia, for example) and old favorites (London, in particular). About every six weeks, I get itchy feet; it’s time to gosomeplace! It can be a weekend away, four weeks in NYC, a long trip, whatever, just a change of scene to mix things up. I understand my mother’s pent-up need to see the world.
Notes: Header photo of Machu Picchu and Kodak Carousel both from the web; flag globe from dreamtime.com
It’s September, the first day of fall is upon us, and everyone who’s going back to school is there by now. I always liked going to school and happily anticipated the end of summer, the cooler days of autumn, and the challenge of new subjects, new teachers, and sometimes even new friends. And while it’s still summery here in Florida, the official change of season reminds me of some incidents from elementary school.
In grade school, going back to school meant the purchase of a new dress, at first just for me and then later for me and my two sisters. These dresses had full skirts, short sleeves, and were almost always plaid. I recall fondly one green and red plaid with a separate red belt that I thought was particularly smart.
From kindergarten through second grade, I walked several blocks to school. It seemed like a longer walk than I’m sure it was. One morning I arrived to find the school door tightly locked. I knocked vigorously several times and then in tears walked back home. My folks had not realized it was a school holiday.
My father’s job called for him to be transferred to another town about an hour away. Before I left for school one morning, my mother told me the name of my new school was “Seward,” and that I should tell that to my teacher. I don’t know why she didn’t write down the name, but she spelled it for me and said she was sure I could remember it. All the way along the sidewalk, I went, chanting, “s, e, w, a, r, d, s, e w, a, r d,” until I reached my classroom. I have no recollection of actually giving Miss Rosa the name nor did I at that point have any idea who William H. Seward was.
Even when I went there, Seward School was an old building (constructed in 1911 and long since torn down) with a basement that was dank and dim and a bit scary. Mr. and Mrs. Steimle, older German immigrants, were the school janitors. Always cordial to the students, they assisted with any drills. When we had air raid drills, a regular occurrence in those years, we had to wind our way down the stairs to that dusty basement and kneel along the wall with our heads down. I don’t think most of us realized what we were preparing for or the potential seriousness if such a drill were for real. It was just another drill, like a fire drill, only we stayed inside instead of exiting the building.
Seward School had classes through 6th grade before we moved on to one of the three high schools in town. Graduation from 6th grade was a big deal—white shirts and ties for the boys and for the girls fancy dresses, and probably stockings. For many of us, this was the first time we had worn stockings. In this pre-pantyhose era, that also meant garters to hold them up.
Sixth grade is also when I had my first male classroom teacher. Mr. Loretan was a young good-looking, capable teacher—liked by all of us, especially the girls!
READING: SIBLING SQUABBLES
The Nest by Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney
I received this book, on the bestseller list for some weeks, as part of my First Editions book club membership. After aging it for a few months, I brought it out of my stack and read it over several days. The four Plumb siblings, Leo, Melody, Jack, and Beatrice, are somewhat at war with each other over the money they are due to inherit from a family trust in several months. The problem is that their mother has given or loaned a significant portion of said “nest” to Leo, who had a car accident while drunk and caused serious injury to his passenger. Each of the siblings has financial issues of his or her own and has been counting on the money. They collectively gang up on Leo to make him do the right thing, but aren’t sure he will.
Often novels about dysfunctional families, and this lot qualifies, are downers and downright depressing. This novel is actually frothy and fun, despite everyone’s problems. I even found myself liking some of them! This reflection of Leo’s on life after sobriety captures his personality:
However he parsed it, his future in New York could only be a diluted reflection of his before, a whiter shade of pale. Evenness defined his present, the by-product, he often thought, of small minds and safe living. In his new after, there would be no ups and downs, no private jets…or walking home from a riotous evening under a pinkening sky. It wasn’t luxury he missed, it was surprise. The things money could buy weren’t the reward; the reward was to feel lifted about everyone else, to get a look at the other side of the fence where the grass was rarely greener but always different and what he loved was the contrast—and the choice.
Thanks to my friend Mary for recommending the Netflix series, The Time in Between, which I just finished watching. Set in Morocco, Madrid, and Lisbon between 1937 and 1941, it’s the story of a talented young Spanish dressmaker who ends up being a spy for the British and infiltrating the German community in Spain. It’s subtitled and the pace, compared to most American productions, is measured—at least until the last few episodes when tension builds and events race to the climax. Adriana Ugarte as Siri is beautiful and the clothes she creates are gorgeous, part of the fun of watching this series. The novel of the same name on which it is based was written by Maria Duenas.
Notes: Header art: www.clipartix.com; plaid dress: www.etsy.com; Sweeney’s photo from Harper Collins author web page
